


Would It Really Kill You If We Kissed?

by ellerkay



Series: Wincest headcanons [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dean Winchester in Denial, Fantasizing, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Self Harm, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Slash, Sibling Incest, Underage Masturbation, Unhappy Ending, Wet Dream, highly negative self-thoughts, underage wet dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29097792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellerkay/pseuds/ellerkay
Summary: A study of Sam and Dean's pre-series attraction for each other.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Wincest headcanons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134482
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25





	1. I can never keep my eyes off of this

**Author's Note:**

> Story title and all chapter titles taken from "Drive" by Halsey, which is so Wincest-y that it's almost spooky.
> 
> This fic is basically all angst. However, like all the stories in this series, I imagine this in a universe where the boys are eventually happy in their relationship and have accepted how they feel about each other.
> 
> This is also more of a character study than a standard story, though I think and hope that it hangs together well enough. My apologies to Dean and Dean fans that he got the short shrift here, but Sam went through a whole journey while Dean pretty much just tried to stubbornly nope out of everything he was feeling. If "Denial" isn't secretly his middle name, it ought to be.

The first time Sam came, he was dreaming about his brother.

It was hazy and strange, in the way of dreams, but Sam knew for a certainty that it was Dean. Dean’s body, warm against his; Dean’s hands on his back. Dean telling him it was okay as Sam thrust against him, driving desperately towards something he didn’t fully understand. The shuddering pleasure of the release.

Things became far clearer when Sam woke up. He was only confused for a moment. He was twelve; Dad had given him the talk years ago, and he’d had a few assorted sex ed classes around the country, more or less informative depending on the state. And Dean was a sex ed class unto himself, full of information, even when Sam didn’t want to hear it. Sam had thought that the way he felt like he was going to die when Dean started sex talk was a normal reaction to your brother trying to discuss intimate matters.

Lying in his bed, rolled away from the wet spot and curled in on himself, embarrassment and shame crashed through Sam. A regular wet dream, he thought, wouldn’t have been so bad. He knew they were normal and he knew it was normal to feel embarrassed about them. Dad and Dean and most of the teachers had emphasized that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

Except Sam had not had a normal dream. He had dreamed about his own _brother_. With a sick certainty, Sam realized that it wasn’t just a dream, either. He had hero-worshipped Dean for as long as he could remember. Even when Dean made him furious, even when he just wanted Dean to leave him alone…Sam loved his brother to his marrow.

And he knew Dean loved him just as much in return. But Dean didn’t – couldn’t – want him the same way. Dean was getting taller and broader all the time and he was beautiful in a way that made people stare at him. Sam was small and awkward and he couldn’t imagine Dean ever feeling desire for him.

Still, he knew now that the reason he couldn’t stand to hear Dean talk about sex stuff was not run-of-the-mill embarrassment but the fact that he wanted Dean to do all that stuff to him. Sam wanted it with a yearning that made him feel like his whole body was on fire. And he knew that even if he got better-looking when he grew up, he could never let Dean know what he wanted. He couldn’t stand for Dean to find out what a freak he was.

Sam brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, squeezing them tightly as hot tears rolled down his face. He listened to Dean breathing in the other bed, unafraid of waking him. Sam had long mastered the art of crying silently.

When he got up, Sam stowed their guns carefully away and took the Do Not Disturb sign from off the motel room’s door handle. They almost always kept it up, unless they ended up staying in a place so long that the room really needed cleaning.

“What’re you doing?” Dean asked from the little table where he was eating a bowl of cereal. His hair was sleep-rumpled. He wore only a white undershirt and boxers. Sam was trying not to look at him much, afraid he’d know somehow what Sam had dreamed. Sam was afraid that if he looked for too long he’d never look away.

Despite his best efforts, Sam felt a fierce blush suffuse his cheeks. “I just want clean sheets,” he mumbled.

“Why?” This was only their second night.

“I just do!” Sam snapped. He turned away from Dean quickly and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying.

“Okay…” Dean said. For a moment the crunching of his cereal was the only sound in the room. Sam folded his pajamas. He’d run to the bathroom to get dressed the second it was late enough in the morning that he could do it without looking suspicious.

“OH!” Dean said suddenly, then went into a fake coughing fit, as if that would cover the noise. Sam’s back went ramrod straight and he froze for a long moment. Finally, he forced himself to keep folding, the movements mechanical. He was finished too soon and started re-folding the clothes in his drawer, unable to think of anything else to do.

A minute later he heard Dean get up from the table and come to stand behind him. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and Sam jumped a mile.

“Hey, it’s cool,” Dean said, his tone sympathetic and relaxed. “Who doesn’t like clean sheets, huh? Might as well take advantage of someone else making the bed.” He squeezed and released Sam’s shoulder. “School in ten.”

Dean disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Sam sat down on the edge of his bed, unfolded T-shirt forgotten in his hands. He stared ahead blindly, heart racing. How was he going to do this? How was he going to survive adolescence in love with his own – 

_No._ The decision, when it came, hardly felt like a decision at all. No, Sam thought. This was not true. It was a weird dream messing with his head. And on the off chance there was anything real in it, any dumb little crush, Sam was going to make it go away. He would make it _stop_.

Sam looked down at the shirt in his hands, re-folded it smartly and replaced it in the drawer. He gave a little nod and started packing his backpack for school.

***

For two years – an eternity – Sam told himself with desperate determination that he was not in love with his brother. He learned quickly to masturbate, to cut down on the chance of wet dreams where his brain might show him things he didn’t want to see. When he touched himself, he thought about anyone besides Dean. Girls and boys from his schools. People from TV. _Anyone_ else would do.

Sometimes, he thought it was working. He’d go days or weeks without accidentally slipping into a fantasy about his brother. Dean became what he should be: an obnoxious, beloved part of Sam’s daily life, wonderful and infuriating in turns.

But then, when Sam was jerking off, safely ensconced in a fantasy about someone else or thinking of nothing at all, Dean’s face or body would flash into his mind. More often than not Sam would come from it, the surprise and the keen desire lancing through his control, such as it was.

 _Freak,_ Sam would think to himself after. _You’re a sick, perverted freak, and he’d never want you anyway._

If he could manage to stop himself from coming immediately at the thought of Dean, Sam would let go of his cock and pinch the insides of his arms, hard, miserably hoping that the negative reinforcement would get him to stop this already. But it seemed to Sam that it just screwed up his head further, crossing wires in his brain and making him like the pain. When Dean pinched him once during what had been a semi-playful slap fight in the backseat, Sam screamed at him and spent the rest of the ride looking out the window, sulking and trying to ignore his aching erection. All he could think about was Dean pinching him again, maybe on his inner thigh.

 _Sick freak, sick freak, he wouldn’t want you anyway,_ his mind chanted.

***

Everything changed when Sam was fourteen.

Dean had gone off on a date, telling Sam adamantly not to leave the room for any reason. Sam figured the vending machine was close enough and stepped outside for a soda not long after Dean left. He rounded the corner of the motel only to find that Dean had not _left_ on a date, but seemed to have brought a date to him.

Dean’s lean, muscled frame and blond hair were unmistakable, even yards away in the semi-darkness. He was making out with his date up against a wall. Nothing Sam hadn’t seen plenty of times before.

Only this time, the date was a boy.

Sam stared for a frozen moment, watching Dean’s casual confidence as he kissed the other boy, long and slow. The date looked about Dean’s age and had brown hair, on the longer side. Totally wrapped up in each other, they seemed not to feel Sam’s eyes on them at all. Sam saw Dean’s fingers slide over the boy’s stomach and start to dip below his waistband. Sam retreated immediately and fled back to the motel room, terrified to think how he’d feel to see Dean jerking off some other boy.

Or more. Sam paced the room, wondering if even now Dean was dropping to his knees, or turning the boy towards the wall and…

Sam put both his hands over his mouth and screamed into them. He strode into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him, worried suddenly that Dean would _finish_ and come back into the room to find Sam out of his mind and with the mother of all hard-ons.

Because he was undeniably hard. As much as seeing Dean with another boy was like a knife to the gut, it was also the hottest thing Sam had ever beheld. Without even thinking, Sam pushed his pants and boxers down and grabbed a couple tissues. He closed his eyes and watched Dean in his mind. Imagined that the boy’s hair was just a little longer, matching Sam’s. Imagined Dean’s fingers under his own waistband.

Sam climaxed with a cry. He waited for the shame to overtake him. He’d never given in to his fantasies with such abandon. To his surprise, something was different. The shame wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t as overpowering as it had been. Something about knowing that Dean liked boys as well as girls made Sam’s crush feel a little less insane.

It shouldn’t have helped. Dean was still his brother, and Sam knew he would never, ever want Sam that way.

But, Sam thought as he buttoned up his jeans, as much as it hurt to admit it, his feelings hadn’t gone anywhere. Two years of trying to suppress them and strip them from his heart had done nothing. At the sight of Dean and that boy, the scales had fallen from Sam’s eyes. He didn’t think he was going to be able to pretend any longer. It was terrible, but it was also a relief not to be at war with himself anymore.

And, Sam thought, if he knew it was hopeless – and he did – what was the harm in indulging a few fantasies? He wasn’t stupid. He knew he didn’t have a shot. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t think about it.

From then on, almost every time he touched himself, Sam thought about Dean. For weeks he thought about nothing but being the boy Dean had been kissing that night at the motel. Dean pushing him against a wall and sliding his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Dean jerking him off or sliding to his knees. _(Sam wrapped a hand around his hard cock, biting back a moan._ Tremulously, Sam thought about getting to touch Dean. His hands on Dean’s stomach and back. Dean’s erection heavy in his hand. Being the one on his knees, his brother in his mouth. _(Sam started stroking himself slowly, imagining how Dean would taste, how his breath would hitch, how his skin would feel.)_ Dean spinning Sam around and taking him against the wall, gently or roughly as Sam’s mood dictated. _(Sam gasped, going faster, rolling his balls in his free hand.)_

Eventually, Sam moved on to new fantasies. Dean catching him masturbating, telling him not to be embarrassed and taking over. Dean fucking him in the shower. _(Sam slid a finger into himself, back arching, imagining it was Dean inside him.)_ Dean saying, “It’s your turn,” and letting Sam fuck him. Sharing a blanket with Dean in the backseat of the Impala and jerking each other off with Dad none the wiser. _(The remnants of shame that had stayed with him only drove Sam faster towards the edge.)_ Dean tying Sam up spread-eagle on a motel room bed and having his way with him. _(Sam couldn’t suppress a soft cry as he came, pulsing onto his stomach, but he only mouthed Dean’s name.)_

On and on, Sam’s mind seemingly endless in its inventions, new ideas sparked all the time. Sam became an expert in looking at his brother without seeming to look. At living in the same tiny spaces all the time and letting Dean’s scent and touches fuel his fantasies instead of burning him up from the inside. At pretending that everything was normal.

In some ways, it was. Dean still annoyed Sam regularly, and Sam learned to compartmentalize his love. He dated girls sometimes – even a couple boys, though he never told Dean about them – and, through some awkward adolescent fumbling, started to learn about what sex was like. Sam still longed for a normal life. Maybe someday, he thought, he’d meet someone he could love enough to get over his brother.

***

When he was sixteen, Sam began to notice Dean looking at him sometimes in a way that made his heart beat faster and a tiny, dangerous spark of hope kindle in his chest. He didn’t react, only observed Dean with even more care than he had the last two years, and even more discreetly. At first, he thought it must be his imagination. Dean couldn’t want him that way. Sam wasn’t even sure what he was starting to notice. A shift so subtle it was only through knowing Dean practically as well as he knew himself that Sam could see it at all.

He told himself it was impossible; that it was wishful thinking. But he’d never had any expectation that Dean would want him the way he wanted Dean. After weeks of careful study, Sam was forced to conclude that he wasn’t imagining it. He was as sure as he could be without hearing it from Dean’s own lips that Dean wanted him, too.

Sam contemplated this for awhile, triumphant and terrified, the spark of hope in him growing to a small, bright blaze. Finally, he decided that he had to see if anything could happen between them. Scared as he was that he was wrong after all, that Dean would hate him, the idea of having a chance and missing it was unbearable.

But it was like trying to flirt with a stone wall. Now Dean was the one who was too embarrassed to talk about anything related to sex; at least, more than a quick joke or innuendo. If Sam took these as an opportunity for further conversation, Dean’s eyes went wide and he laughed it off with another joke and hastily changed the subject. When Sam tried to ask something about girls – what could be safer, he thought; Dean had always been so full of unasked-for advice – Dean told him to ask Dad.

If Sam sat just a hair too close, Dean would shift away. Once, Sam took his shirt off in a too-hot motel room and Dean hopped up off his bed and practically bolted for the door, yelling something about going for a drive. Sam stared as the door slammed behind him. He hadn’t even meant that as a flirtation. The AC was broken and it really was too hot.

Weeks of this turned into months, Dean shutting down even the tiniest hints Sam cautiously assayed, saying nothing about it. Not that Sam had the courage to confront him directly. He was surer than ever that Dean felt something for him, but it was clear as day that his brother would never, ever let anything happen between them.

Heart heavy, Sam finally gave up. He spent the next few weeks in a funk so thick even Dad asked what was wrong. Sam mumbled an excuse, barely even aware of what he was saying.

“It’s probably that cute blonde we had to leave back in Tallahassee, huh, Sam?” Dean said, twisting around in the front seat to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam blinked at him. There was just the barest edge of anxiety in Dean’s voice. Could have been worry, but Sam suspected it was because Dean guessed the truth, only he wouldn’t ever let himself really know it. Dean had always been a champion when it came to denial.

“Susie, right?” Dean said, when Sam said nothing. “You miss her, huh?” His eyes were a little too wide. Sam could almost smell his desperation. Sam had worked with Susie on a school project one afternoon. She’d been nice, but there hadn’t been the slightest romantic attraction between them.

Sam looked away from Dean, gazing out the window instead. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. Let Dean pretend that meant he’d guessed right.

That night, Sam lay awake, flat on his back on the rollaway bed, thinking about his life. He’d wanted something normal for a long time. He’d wanted college. When he thought he and Dean might be together, he’d put those plans half on hold. He’d continued to work hard at school, eager to graduate and to maintain good grades, but he’d thought maybe his plans would change if he and Dean were something. There were a lot of unknowns, but he’d thought maybe they could navigate them together.

He knew now that it wasn’t to be. Dean was bound and determined to make sure there was nothing but brotherly love between them. And Sam knew he couldn’t live like this forever. He didn’t want to hunt. And it was much, much harder to be around Dean now that he’d had hope and then had it snatched away. He’d let himself imagine what it could be like. Not one of his jerkoff fantasies, but something real. Worse, he’d imagined that it _could_ be real. It was far more difficult than when he’d been sure it was impossible. That Dean couldn’t want what he wanted.

With a sigh, Sam rolled over and closed his eyes. Perhaps he could salvage some sleep. At his next school, he’d make an appointment with the guidance counselor to talk about how a kid with no money and a bizarre school record could make it into college.

As much as he loved Dean – and, in part, _because_ he loved Dean – Sam knew that he had to get away.


	2. the exit signs I missed

When Dean was twenty, he started dreaming about his brother.

He’d dreamt about Sam all his life, of course. Normal, weird, stupid dreams; and, Sam often featured heavily in Dean’s nightmares. Sam in danger. Sam hurt or dead. Sam angry at him.

But Sam was sixteen, growing like a weed – almost Dean’s height now, which was terrifying – and starting to fill out. Sam’s skin was brown with summer sun, his eyes bright, his dumb, too-long hair shiny. And Dean’s dreams had become much, much worse.

It took Dean a couple minutes to realize what had happened, the first time. He woke up to sticky sheets and was somewhere between annoyed at the mess and lazily contented with the pleasure of the dream. What had happened? he wondered, his sleepy brain trying to catch at the memory.

When he succeeded, Dean sat bolt upright with a gasp, heart pounding. Shame and horror broke over him like a wave. He felt hot and cold at once. _Sam._ In his dream, he and Sam were sharing a motel room bed. Sam had kissed him; Dean had tried to tell him no, but Sam had rubbed up against him – they were mysteriously naked – and Dean just let it happen, let himself thrust against Sam’s thigh until…

Dean buried his face in his hands, eyes stinging with tears. He was shaking slightly as he lay back down as quietly as he could, thankful that Sam, asleep in the other bed, didn’t seem to have woken up. Another hot spike of guilt shot through him at the reminder of Sam’s proximity. _Monster,_ Dean thought to himself. _You’re a sick fucking monster, Dean Winchester._

He took a shuddery breath and a voice in his head that always sounded like Dad told him to get a grip on himself. _It was just a dream,_ he told himself. _Brains are weird and people dream all sorts of fucked-up shit. It doesn’t mean anything._

Dean rolled away from the wet spot and forced himself to breathe and think about other things, letting the memory of the dream – nightmare – fade. Eventually he fell asleep again and when he woke up, he grimly stripped the bedsheets and resolved never to think about that awful night again.

***

Except that the dreams didn’t stop. Dean tried everything. But no matter how many times he jerked off during the day, how many women or even men he picked up, or how carefully he went to sleep on his side or his back, they just kept happening. Every few weeks, at least.

Sometimes it was just a vague collection of sensations; Sam’s warm skin, Sam smiling or laughing, Sam’s lips or hands on Dean. Some were frighteningly clear. Sam sucking him off in the Impala. The two of them fucking in the shower. Dean stroking Sam under the covers in a motel room bed, afraid Dad was going to wake up but unable to stop and chase the ecstatic look from Sam’s face. On and on.

Dean didn’t actually come in his sleep every time, but it was almost worse when he didn’t. He’d wake up hard, instead, and have to get himself off trying to think about anything, _anything_ but Sam, while the dream – nightmare – lingered in his mind and fueled his arousal.

Because Dean’s stupid, stupid dreams were starting to warp his waking mind, too. It was with abject horror that Dean caught himself once watching the lines of Sam’s body as Sam washed the Impala, wet undershirt clinging to his chest. Watching Sam, not casually or disinterestedly, but with the subtle yet intense focus he’d bestow on a beautiful girl doing the same thing. (Or, perhaps, a beautiful boy, but Dean told himself often that this part of his sexuality was just a little thing, an occasional bit of fun – more for variety than any serious interest. It was nothing that needed to be acknowledged or talked about.)

After that terrifying realization, Dean was on his guard all the time, keeping his behavior appropriate with Sam. But it was too late. Dean quickly discovered something far worse: some of Dean’s own monstrous desires must have rubbed off on Sam somehow. Because Sam appeared to occasionally be _flirting_ with him. Sam was subtle and oh-so-careful, but Dean knew how to recognize the signs.

_You piece of shit garbage excuse for a person,_ Dean said to himself in his mind. _You absolute monster. It wasn’t enough for you to be a sick, twisted pervert in your dreams, was it? You had to spread it to your little brother. The brother you were supposed to take care of. The brother you were supposed to protect. Turns out you’re the one he needs protection from. You’re less than human. You’re worse than the monsters you hunt – hell, they’re only doing what’s in their natures. **You** should be hunted. Your dad would shoot you dead in a heartbeat if he knew what you’d been thinking._

_It’s not my fault,_ Dean tried to protest. _I didn’t ask for this. It’s just screwy dreams fucking with my head. I don’t really want my own brother._ He believed it. He had to. But it didn’t stop the guilt or the shame.

Dean ruthlessly shut it down every time he thought Sam might be making a pass. After a while, to Dean’s profound relief, Sam seemed to give up. Maybe he was okay now. Maybe he had managed to work his way free of whatever sickness Dean had accidentally infected him with.

Dean kept finding people to fuck, trying to keep a clear head. When the fear or memory of the dreams got too bad, he’d drink until he could pass out safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t dream at all.

When Sam went away, Dean felt like he’d cracked in half. But despite everything, despite his desperate desire to have his brother back, Dean felt a little sliver of relief. It was safer. Safer for Dean and definitely safer for Sam. If they weren’t together, there was no danger. (There was no danger even if they _were_ together, Dean reminded himself. It was impossible. Not in a million years would he let anything like that happen; and he didn’t want it anyway, no matter how his dreams tried to fuck him up and convince him otherwise.) Over time, the dreams began to fade, coming upon him with less and less frequency.

But they never, ever went away.


	3. California never felt like home to me

Sam had hoped that leaving Dean behind would mean leaving his feelings for Dean behind. That, with time, they’d fade.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

He tried. It reminded him of those two years in middle school when he was desperate never to think of Dean the wrong way. The guilt and shame weren’t like they were then. Their specters raised their ugly heads every so often, but Sam had more or less accepted what he wanted long ago. He’d accepted that Dean would never want it; when he realized he’d been wrong about that, he accepted that Dean would never allow himself to acknowledge what they both wanted. Sam was getting very good at accepting the unacceptable. Things that he felt initially would tear him apart. Like leaving Dean.

Sam didn’t have the level of self-recrimination he’d felt when he was younger. But he remembered the mental discipline he’d shown, suppressing his thoughts of Dean. He tried to do it when he was a freshman at Stanford, thinking it was healthier to move on.

After a few months and many nights of dreaming about Dean, Sam gave it up. When he jerked off, he usually thought about Dean. All the old fantasies; some new ones. Dean sneaking into one of Sam’s boring lecture halls, ducking under the desk, sucking Sam off. Dean showing up at the local watering hole and the two of them sneaking off to the men’s room for messy, hasty handjobs. Dean in his bed in the tiny, cheap off-campus apartment Sam was splitting with three other guys, fucking Sam mercilessly with a hand over Sam’s mouth so his roommates wouldn’t catch him with his brother.

Sam thought about other things, too, on the bus or when he was trying to fall asleep. He thought about Dean showing up and saying he’d told Dad off and left the life. “We’ll get a place of our own, Sammy. I’ll tend bar while you keep doing your nerdy school thing. When you’re a big-shot lawyer, I’ll be a man of leisure.” Sam thought about how they’d argue over decorating whatever horrible little apartment they could afford. He thought about coming home and seeing the light in Dean’s eyes. He thought about kissing Dean goodnight and waking up with him in the morning.

Those hurt far more than the sex fantasies, but all of it was easier to deal with if Sam didn’t try to fight it. He watched them all like they were movies projected onto the screen of his mind. He dated and experimented and learned a lot about himself. Gradually, his feelings for Dean became more of a background noise in his life; something he could even forget about for a time, until something recalled them to his attention. It was like a punch in the gut every time, but Sam learned to deal with the pain of that, too.

When he met Jess, Sam found, with surprise and relief and the strangest pang of disappointment, that he was capable of loving someone the way he loved his brother. It wasn’t the same; it couldn’t be. He and Dean had been together their whole lives, and he couldn’t expect the weight of years to come to bear in a new relationship. And he didn’t feel the desperate, all-consuming inferno of passion for her that he did for Dean. But there _was_ passion, hot and deep and stirring. And Sam could imagine a life with her.

He still often thought of Dean when he masturbated. He didn’t mind that. He felt that it wasn’t cheating any more than watching porn was cheating. But Sam did try begin to try, gently, to discourage himself from the other kinds of fantasies about Dean. He let them play out if they were insistent, but when he could, he began to turn his thoughts away from them. A life with Jess was something he wanted, and it felt like more of a betrayal of her to imagine one with Dean.

Yet there were times when Sam imagined Dean showing up at his and Jess’ place. He never got very far in them. He didn’t want to indulge them. He imagined himself telling Dean firmly to go.

But there, Sam would get stuck. Picturing Dean agreeing to go, or himself sticking to his guns, seemed to be difficult for his mind to visualize. He told himself that it didn’t matter. In the unlikely event it ever happened – barring some huge emergency – that was what he’d do.

Still, sometimes, Sam would picture Dean in their living room or kitchen, asking Sam to come with him, and Sam would wonder about what his own answer would be.


End file.
